


Granite

by LilithEncodead



Category: Being Human UK
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithEncodead/pseuds/LilithEncodead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The briefest look into the life and mindset of a man in grey, and the supernatural stirrings of the morning hours (vignette/ mini-fic). [WRITTEN BEFORE S5 STARTED AIRING]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Granite

A soft click died in the air, as a man in grey closed the mirrored cabinet. Every sound was amplified at that quiet hour. The slow, precise ticking of a clock pulsed through the empty air and lonely rooms, continuous and uninterrupted as the beat of an untroubled heart - ticking, as the water drained from the sink. It gurgled, sullied by the faint tint of a rusted red-orange, as it slipped down the plughole with a silk-like fluidity. The taint was of freshly washed blood - but that was the farthest thing from his mind at that quiet moment. Every trace of the night’s work was to be washed away; washed from his hands, from his skin, and from his mind - cleansing himself of the supernatural filth that seemed to cling so keenly to him.  
This had never been the easiest part of the job. It was a solitary, personal matter, and could take hours (especially if there were stubborn crimson crusts beneath his fingernails - causing him to scrub his fingertips raw, eating at his time and energy). But it had to be done. He had to untangle himself from the supernatural world, and unweave his fingers from its grip; otherwise, it would claim him - his mind, his sanity and his soul. And he couldn’t have that.  
Their trainees seemed to find the task of detaching themselves particularly difficult. Their minds were so like a child’s - sensitive, bruising and impressionable - but also malleable, which was all _they_ really needed. He too had been malleable once, before his training. However, no amount of instruction or practice could fully block them out. His mind was constantly open to them - the creatures of the supernatural world. They muddied his subconscious thoughts, and stalked into his dreams, if he did not cleanse himself of them thoroughly, and properly.  
That was the task at hand.  
Making them disappear was not as easy as one might think. Dispelling them from his thoughts was even less so. If he were to concentrate, and let the stillness of his home seize him over, he could feel them. The vampires, the werewolves, and the ghosts - stirring in the night’s autumn leaves; seething and breathing out their malignance, polluting the crisp, fresh air, until they claimed the night as their own. A great, festering mass of filth, slowly creeping over the world, like a shadow. Sometimes his work - cleaning their mess, keeping them hidden, and suppressing their evils - felt frivolous; almost as futile as attempting to beat back the encroaching waves of the sea, away from the shore, with nothing but a stick and the power of will. Oh, how his will had once wavered, as their waves lapped at his feet…  
Though not anymore. Now, he was a man of impenetrable stone. A man of grey.   
Outside, the blackness of the sky was bleaching with new morning, as the night withdrew like a threatened animal, holding just as much hate for its attacker. The dark hours had passed. The creatures were all skulking back to their beds - or exorcised, or zipped into body-bags, or clawing in frustration, hanging in nets; either way - the veritable books were closed, and his work was done. He’d washed his hands of them, for the time being.  
Rook checked his reflection briefly - piercing and unforgiving grey eyes, shining back at him like stolen silver - searching for imperfections in the looking-glass, just in time to catch his fingerprints there. Misting on the glass. They were present for less than three seconds, less than a moment, barely visible, before they sucked in on themselves, necrotising; disappearing without a single trace.

**Author's Note:**

> [A/N] I said it was brief. The Chinese used to call stories of 300 - 2000 words “smoke longs” because you could only smoke one pipe of opium in the time it took to read it. That’s what I was going for ^^  
> Please leave your thoughts for me to munch on. I’m ravenous >:D xx


End file.
